2 Pi
by OodHappenings
Summary: Part of the Circle Series. Set between Circle and 360. What happened between The Fall and The Resurrection? Mystrade, with Johnlock themes throughout. Rated for content.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I present to you the net portion of my Circle series, 2π. If you haven't noticed each f the titles are mathematical equivalents for a complete circle. I'm fond of educational humor. Yes this is humorous to me. Moving on. This is a Mystrade story set between The Fall and The Resurrection, so between Circle and 360. My first "official" Mystrade story, so here you have it. Enjoy.**

Lestrade was sitting at his desk when he received the call.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

A fall.

Suicide.

He dropped the phone, moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes that he quickly wiped away.

His next thought was of John.

John Watson, the man in love with Sherlock Holmes.

The man who had given so much and ran so far for the mad detective.

The detective Inspector went to pick up the phone once more, to inform his friends of Sherlock's passing, when DI Dimmock stepped into the room, a smug looking Anderson at his side.

He slammed the paper onto Lestrade's desk, is features solemn.

"There you are then. Suspended until further notice."

He simply nodded, moving to stand.

"Your belongings are being held as evidence as part if the inquiry against you."

Another nod.

Of course.

He'd be investigated as an accomplice of the criminal mastermind that they were making his friend out to be.

He made to move past his desk, but was stopped by Anderson.

"Are, ahh, are you going to arrest me, or am I allowed to go home for the time being."

His voice was hoarse with the overwhelming sense of loss that slammed into him.

Anderson sneered at him.

"Sound a little croaky there Lestrade. Guilt getting to you?"

The detective Inspector clenched his fists as he took a menacing step forward, rage mixing with his sorrow.

"I just learned that a damn good friends of mine is dead, another friend has just lost his lover. I've lost my job,certainly my home and everything in it, and you expect me to remain stoic?"

He shook his head, snatching the letter from his desk hottily before pushing his face mere inches from the forensic scientist's.

"I will be back. When the truth comes out and Sherlock's name is cleared I'll be right back in this office."

Anderson snorted.

"Your fake genius has left you Greg. You're done. Over with."

Lestrade stormed out of the office, his face red as he strode through the halls, out of the front door on New Scotland Yard.

He nearly wept in relief at the black towncar parked upfront, Mycroft's assistant meaning against the door.

"Mr. Holmes has requested your presence-"

He project of her speech with a hug, sudden warmth startling the unsuspecting woman.

"Thank god you're here."

She awkwardly patted his back, unsure of how to respond to the situation.

"Mr. Lestrade, would you please get into the car."

He nodded pulling away and wiping the tear from his eye.

She smiled at him sympathetically, a trace of red tinting her own cheeks.

"After you-"

He held open the door, and she obliged, slipping in quietly.

The car ride was silent save for the clicking of fingers against the screen of Anthea's phone.

No sooner had they pulled up to Mycroft's manner did Lestrade break down, stubborn tears leaking down his cheeks, his breath growing shallow as he taught the urge to sob.

Mycroft himself opened the door, gathering the man into his arms and pressing his face into the crook of his neck.

"He's gone Myc. I can't believe he's gone."

The politician clung to the man in his arms tightly, words failing him.

"Do you know wha-"

He stopped, swallowing the lump in throat.

"Why he he just-"

Mycroft nodded, his cheeks brushing against the other man's hair.

"Moriarty."

Lestrade let out a stuttering sigh, squeezing the politician before pulling back slightly.

"Is he-"

"Moriarty himself has been eliminated. Sherlock assured that. The details of the happenings have yet to be brought to light. My people recovered Sherlock's cell phone from the scene and are working on recovering the files from it. Doctor Watson's story however-"

Greg stepped away fully, his eyes wide with shock.

"What, do you mean John was there?"

Mycroft sighed, moving to place his hand on The small of Lestrade's back.

"Let's discuss this inside, shall we?"

He nodded, leaning into his partner as they walked up the stone steps, tread heavy against the marble floors as they made their way to a private sitting room.

The dim evening light filtered in through the stained glass windows, allowing a calming glow fall over the room.

Lestrade fell into an armchair, his head buried in his hands.

"Did John, did he-"

Mycroft sighed, moving to pour two tumblers of scotch.

"He saw the whole thing I'm afraid."

Lestrade nodded, downing his scotch and rubbing his eyes wearily.

"Is someone, is there someone with him? He shouldn't be alone."

Mycroft sighed.

"At this time he is finishing processing for his arrest."

Lestrade' eyes widened.

"What? Why on earth-"

He paused, shaking his head.

"He's being treated as an accomplice in the crime's thy're pinning on Sherlock."

The politician nodded.

"As well as for is own crimes. Let'snot forget he did physically assault the superintendent and evade police custody."

Greg slumped in his chair, the empty glass hanging loosely in his finger tips.

"Please tell me that you're going to get him out Myc. He doesn't need any of that. You know they've gotta be harassing him."

He sat forward, elbows on his knees.

"I can see it now. Gullible John Watson. The good doctor who fell in love with the biggest fraud in London. Christ, and the officer's will be the worst."

Mycroft simply nodded, sipping gingerly from his glass.

"I've already got my assistant in place to post his bail when they announce it though that will most likely be after the funeral."

Greg sat his glass down, running his fingers through his hair before glancing up, eyes guilt ridden.

"Fuck, I haven't even asked how you were doing. He was your brother for Christ's sake."

The politician, took another sip of his scotch, swirling the glass before bringing himself to meet Greg's eyes.

"I'm coping Gregory. I-this, it's all very unfortunate."

The detective's eyes narrowed, his chest tightening with anger.

"Unfortunate? A madman drove your fucking brother to commit suicide and all you can say is that it's unfortunate?"

He stood, his body shaking with anger.

"He was your brother Mycroft. Your fucking brother. I know you care damn it. I saw you cry when he nearly overdosed. I was there whe nyou walked him through rehab. As much as you don't want to admit it you loved your brother, yet his death is only unfortunate?"

He shook his head, ignoring the pained expression on Mycroft's features.

"I'm going for a walk Mycroft Holmes."

He stormed out of the room, angry and upset.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft sighed, halfheartedly examining the newspaper in his hands, 'Suicide of Fake Genius.'

He scoffed, rolling his eyes and shaking his head dismissively.

"Ungrateful imbeciles."

He debated upon following after Gregory, attempting to put things right, but was interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.

Thank heavens.

"Holmes."

The voice that rumbled across the line was tight, strained, but alive.

"Mycroft."

The politician let out a sigh of relief.

"Glad to hear your voice again, for a moment I had actually been worried."

There was a nervous chuckle, something so out of character for the detective that his brother took note.

"It takes more than that to kill me, you should know."

Mycroft smirked.

"When shall I expect you? I'm assuming that you're staying with Miss Hooper for a few days."

There was a shifting followed by a groan.

"Yea. Until I feel well enough to travel. Dying is quite painful."

The politician hummed, swirling the glass in his palm.

"Not just for you. Gregory is wrought with despair at your departure, as is your dear Mrs. Hudson and-"

There was a pained growl.

"Don't say it."

Mycroft stopped, pausing for a moment to collect himself.

"My apologies. You are aware that he's under arrest now."

The clattering if a chair followed by a faint yelp was heard behind Sherlock's surprised exclamation.

"What? Why the hell would they do that? I held him at gun point so they wouldn't -"

"So they wouldn't what, Sherlock?. So they would think that you two were partners in crime? So that he would be acquitted of all charges? No, he's still a high profile suspect. He'll spend the next few days in jail until My assistant posts bail, he'll miss your funeral, that's unavoidable. Then he'll be sent directly to his psychiatrist for evaluation and trauma assistance."

There was a discontented grunt at the mention of therapy.

Sherlock had never approved of that for his doctor.

"He'll visit your grave, say his goodbyes, and move on with his life."

Mycroft could imagine his brothers solemn nod, and resolutely ignored the tear filled waver in his voice.

"While I go after Moriarty's network."

He spat the name, fury rising in his voice.

"You'll get your revenge in due time Sherlock, for now let's focus on getting yourself together again, shall we?"

The line went quiet, and for a moment Mycroft believed that Sherlock had hung up.

"Just promise me that you'll keep him out of trouble, alright?"

Mycroft hummed noncommittally.

"Mycroft-"

A warning.

"Yes, fine. You have a deal."

There was a sigh before the line clicked off, leaving Mycroft exhausted.

No insults.

No obscured thoughts or argumentation.

No witty remarks.

Just amicable conversation and barely suppressed emotions.

He rubbed his face with his hands as if he could wipe away the truth.

Sherlock was broken.

He allowed himself a moment toi breath, letting his eyes drift closed.

When he opened them again, he felt a soft warmth enveloping him, and the sound of snoring coming form actoss the room.

His eyes opened slowly as he absorbed the data of his situation.

Obviously he had fallen asleep, and someone had draped a blanket over him in his chair.

The sorce of the snoring was, infact, Greg Lestade, who had curled up on the settee, his arms wrapped around himself against the chill of the room.

Mycroft smiled softly, standing and streatching softly.

He toed off his shoes and padded over to the detective inspecter, his fingers trailing across his forehead.

"Gregory."

his head turned to the warmth of Mycroft;s hand, a slight man escaping his lips.

The politician took a moment to take in just how tired his detective looked.

How worn.

"Gregory."

A touch louder, the DI's eyes fluttering open at the sound.

He looked up at Mycroft with a tired smile.

"Come on."

Greg sat up slowly, his fingers ruffing his shaggy grey hair.

"Bed?"

A mumble.

Mycroft nodded, his arm wrapping gently around his shoulder.

They shuffled into a guest bedroom, neither man up to climbing the grand staircase to Mycroft's room.

A few moments passed of sluggish clothing removal, fumbling with socks and tripping over pant's legs.

Finally, they collapsed onto their respective sides of the bed, Greg's back to his politician.

"Gregory?"

Lestrade sighed, shifting to lay on his back.

"Myc, I know that you're gonna react different than the rest of us."

His speech was slurred wit h sleep, but the words were clear.

"I shouldn't 've said anything."

He stretched a hand over to pat Mycroft's hip gently.

"You'll deal how you deal."

A sigh.

"And I'm here. We'll get through this Myc."

The politician looked away, refusing to make eye constant with his detective.

"I don't doubt that Gregory."

Conversation slipped away as the DI slipped back into unconsciousness.

Mycroft turned away to face the wall, tears threatening his eyes.

He dabbed at them silently guilt gnawing at his gut.

There was one thing that he absolutely loathed.

Lying.

A part of him want to laugh at his career choice as a politician.

The rest of him screamed with guilt.

Years of his career had steeled him against the emotion, strengthened his resolve.

Numbed him.

But lying to the man he-

To Gregory Lestrade.

Especially when those lies hurt the man so deeply.

That pain was nearly unbearable.

He let a single tear fall as he himself slipped to sleep, hoping the the morning would bring absolution.


	3. Chapter 3

Morning found Mycroft surrounded by the limbs of his detective inspector, uncomfortably warm puffs of air hiring the side of his neck. The politician squirmed, unaccustomed to the encompassing contact. His sudden movement roused the other man from slumber, his words slurred and toughened by drowsiness.

"Myc. Why're ya moving? It's early."

Mycroft sighed, disentangling himself and turning to face his lover. "I'm just too warm is all. Would you like to go back to sleep?"

Lestrade shook his head, sitting up groggily and stretching, his spine cracking with the motion. "Nah."

The politician smirked at the detective inspector. "Eloquent as always Gregory."

The man chuckled, pulling himself out of bed slowly. Mycroft stood as well, turning to make the bed behind them. Greg simply watched the motions of Mycroft, straightening the sheets and fluffing the pillows. Smiling at the delicate motions used to make sure each tassel was in place. "Why do you do that?"

Mycroft looked up, his face betraying his confusion. "What?"

He waved his hand to gesture at the bed. "Make the bed. Can't you have one of your people do it?"

Mycroft nodded, smoothing out a crease in the duvette before walking towards the other man. "They're employees Gregory, not slaves. There are some things that a person must do for themselves, to maintain the pretence of being an individual. For me, making the bed in my own home is one of them." He tapped Greg's arm lightly and started walking to the bathroom. "Is there a particular reason that you've never asked about that before?"

the detective shrugged. "I've never really noticed that you did it, if I'm honest. Our schedules never "

Mycroft nodded, opening the bathroom door. "Which is something that you'll need to work on now that-" He stopped himself, his stomach rolling as he saw the pain tighten the other man's features.

Greg simply nodded, shutting the door behind them. "Yea I know. That is if they give me my job back."

The politician gently laid a hand on his detective's shoulder. "They will, in time. They'll find that they have no possible way of incriminating Doctor Watson, yourself, or Sherlock on any charges. I assure you."

Another nod. "You know that I'm going to miss him. The arrogant bastard that he was, he was a good man."

Mycroft felt yet another twist in his gut. "Hmm. Yes, well." He strode over and turned on the shower. "Let's get ready to face the day shall we?"

Greg sighed, torn between being pissed at Mycroft for his lack of any sort of emotional response and dread for the media circus that was sure to be his fate. "Can't I just hide here until this whole thing blows over?"

Mycroft sighed, unbuttoning his shirt and draping it neatly onto a hook on the wall. "I truly am sorry, but you are one of the few people that can actually defend Sherlock's identity. Doctor Watson is in jail, Molly Hooper -no doubt- is wrought with grief, and I cannot be publicly faced with such a scandal at the moment."

The moment the words had left his mouth Mycroft realized that they were incorrect. Once more he saw the blood rush to the surface and stain his neck red.

_Damn._

"Gregory I-"

The detective inspector raised his hand to point accusingly at the politician,before balling it into a fist and letting it fall too his side. "You can't be bothered to speak for your own- Mycroft! There's coping differently and then there's- there's. Do you even!"

He simply shook his head and wrenched open the door, forcing Mycroft to pad along behind him. "Listen. Gregory, that was a poor choice in wording. What i mean is that , I can't do what i need to do to clear Sherlock's name, if I appear publicly. My duty now is to prove the existence of Jim Moriarty, disprove the Richard Brooks myth, and dismantle the 'web' that Sherlock was so adamant about. None of that can be done with me going from press conference to press conference attesting his innocence."

Greg stopped, the logic of Mycroft's statement settling over him. "You're right. Of course you're right." He ran a hand through his hair, spiking it up slightly. "Doesn't mean that I have to like it."

Mycroft nodded, and lightly kissed the other man's forehead. "No you do not."

The both returned to the bathroom, going through the routine of showering and shaving, the monotony of it comforting to both of them. No sooner had they finished getting dressed did Mycroft's assistant step into the room. "Detective Inspector lestrade your car is waiting out front."

Greg looked over at Mycroft imploringly, and was met with only a tight smile.

He simply nodded, turning away dejectedly. Mycroft sighed, gently turning Greg's head to face his. "It will be alright. I assure you." the indecision and fear left the detective inspector's eyes as Mycroft leaned forward and gently kissed him. the gesture chaste but the meaning clear.

Mycroft's assistant lightly tapped her heel against the floor, drawing both men's attention back to the present. "Yes well, Gregory, she'll brief you on everything that you need to know. Alright?"

Another nod, this one accompanied by a soft smile.

Mycroft watched as his assistant and his lover walked out of the room, only leaving when he heard the front doors slam shut.

The first order of business?

Free John Watson.


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade sat quietly as Mycroft's assistant- Avice, today- presented him with an excruciatingly detailed itinerary for the day.

"Alright, so, we're going to head first to New Scotland Yard and retrieve some paperwork, before heading to a preliminary council meeting that will review your case. As it is such a high profile hearing, they will want to advance the investigation as quickly as possible. That means that they could reach a decision as early as next week."

He nodded slowly, understanding that the extremely short timeline was the window that his cut-rate lawyer would have to work in.

As if sensing his apprehension, the woman paused to slide to another tab on her tablet. "Mr. Holmes is providing your lawyer,who has already prepared your case for examination."

The detective took the tablet and scrolled through the listed information. Points of his case, points for the press conference, information that seemed pertinent to attesting Sherlock's innocence in the public eye. It was all there, typed and color coded.

He finished simming the documents and set the device aside. "Sounds good. I'm sure that you've got it all sussed out."

Greg sighed and let his gaze drift down to his hands, which were once more fidgeting in his lap. He murmured the facts over to himself, a mechanism that usually calms him making him all the more on edge. An occupation that took up a vast majority of the trip.

Avice sighed and shook her head, glancing up from her phone and peering straight into the detective's eyes. "Sir, I understand that I am speaking out of turn, but you can rest assured that things will be alright."

The detective's brow furrowed in confusion as the woman gingerly grasped his shoulder. " I understand that there are several emotional reasons for your stress and apprehension. I understand that Holmes the younger was close to you."

She noticed the softening of the man's features and sighed, moving away. " But there is no logical use in you remaining tense and irritated over the thought of losing your job, or of John Watson remaining in custody."

Again Greg simply nodded, swallowing his feelings as best he could as the town car pulled up to meet a horde of chattering reporters and bright flashing lights.

He stepped out and was bombarded, microphones were shoved into his face, the flashing of light blinded him to the point of stumbling. Had it not been for one kind samaritan from the crowd gripping him about the shoulders and shepherding him to the door he never would have made it at all. Though when he turned to thank the stranger, he had vanished back into the crowd.

From there he straightened his tie and squared his shoulders, hell bent on facing this issue head on.

An officer met him at the side door to the conference room stage, his face contorted into what could only be described as a sneer as Greg Lestrade entered the room.

The rest of the conference table was empty. Only one chair sat in the center, facing a crowd of dozens of people, each one wearing their own mask contempt or humour.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and strode purposefully to his seat, looking directly above the heads of the crowd.

"I am here today to answer any and all questions regarding the recent death of Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. Along with my own suspension from my duties."

There was a murmur through the crowd that he quieted with a raised hand. His thoughts fluttered for a moment as he thought back to the notes he had been provided.

He adopted Mycroft's patented cold demeanor and rolled his shoulders back. "First and foremost, I would like to clarify that for the duration of this press conference, I will not refer to James Moriarty as Richard Brooks. Nor will I deny that Sherlock Holmes was anything but the man that he stated to be. If this is unacceptable to you or your story, than by all means, the door is that way."

Much to his surprise a few people actually did stand and stalk out of the room, the doors slamming behind them.

"As you can see I have apparently ruined the plot line a few of your colleagues articles." The crowd chuckled, it was dry and courteous, but far more than the detective had been expecting.

"I hold fast to my beliefs and previous assertions of faith in Sherlock Holmes. I stand by my knowledge that it was he who contributed sincerely to the solving of several high profile cases. I also stand by that knowledge that he was no fabrication. At one time or another you have most likely seen his face, either in person or in a photograph. Many of you followed John Watson's blog, or read it to prep yourself to write your articles about Sherlock Holmes."

A voice from the back of the room. _"What's your point?" _

"You see, I refuse to believe that a man that I knew personally for several years could convince not only myself, but a trained and battle hardened soldier into believing that he was something that he was not. Surely there will be allegations of John Watson or myself being accomplices to this whole 'scheme' of Sherlock Holmes'."

There were a few head nods and many more sobered expressions around the room, even some excited hand gestures and sly smiles. Lestrade shook his head and fold his hands in front of him. "Do you honestly think that any human being could write on such a personal level as John Watson did about a man that he didn't really know?"

_"It could have been an act."_

"Would someone with a put on personality actually have such glaringly odd attributes as not knowing his solar system, or keeping severed fingers in tea tins? You can argue yourselves in circles about it, but I've been to dinner with Sherlock in his flat, and I can attest with the utmost honesty that he is-was the most uncouth, emotionally and socially stunted bastard that I have ever met. He was rude, inconsiderate, an absolute terror to work with, and one of my best friends."

One of the reports showed out from the crowd. _"How could you be __friends__ with someone like that?_ "

"Despite his faults and flaws, despite the lack of manners and the eccentricity Sherlock Holmes was one of the most honest humans that I have ever come across."

Another shout._ "But we all know that he's lied to you in order to 'solve' cases for you."_

"Oh sure he's lied, we all have. But he was always honest in his results and interactions."

_"What for you have to say for yourself?"_

The detective shook his head smirking at the crowd even as tears threatened behind his eyes at the memories of his friend swam through his mind. "I can say that, in regards to my actions, my beliefs, and the decisions I've made, my judgement had been sound and based on fact."

Mycroft's assistant appeared in the back of the room and moved her finger in a circle, telling the detective to wrap it up.

"I'll take one more question."

Every person in the room jumped up and swarmed to the front of the room, their words blurring together into a hum.

Lestrade stood and shook his head, shouting over the crowd. "I said one more question, not five hundred, blimey." The noise trickled down and he saw a woman standing at the back of the crowd, a smug smile on her face, he arms crossed over her chest. He pointed at her. "You there, what's your name?"

She smiled, and the mere sight of it made the detective uneasy. "Kitty Riley, Detective Inspector, or should I say former Detective Inspector, seeing as there is no way that your career can possibly withstand the stigma of letting a psychopath have control of your cases."

Now Lestrade recognized her. The sleazy tabloid author who posted the Richard Brooks article in the first place.

Shit.

The detective swallowed back his anger and faced her squarely. "Ma'am I do not think that that was a question."

"It wasn't. Just a statement of fact. My question was whether you had a good backup career, or if your politician boyfriend was going to pay the bills from now on?"

Greg was shocked. No one knew about Mycroft, save from John and Sherlock. No one. That meant that somewhere, somehow, there was a leek.

The detective floundered for a few precious seconds, trying desperately to think of what Mycroft would say in this moment. The only thing that came to mind was deny.

"Ma'am. I see what you're suggesting, but it is completely unfounded. Furthermore, lets not make any unprofessional assumptions until a decision on my position has been made, alright?"

The crowd that had been silent for the entirety of the exchange once more exploded into noise, most of them turning to attack a red faced Kitty Riley with questions of their own.

Lestrade used the turn of events to slip out of the side door and down a back staircase in the municipal building, ending up in the service garage, where the all to familiar black car sat parked, the door being held open by a women who not moments ago had been standing in the back of the same room as him.

"How did you get-" He stopped himself, and shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

He slid into the car and she followed suit, a reversal of their earlier seating arrangement. There was a silence while the car began moving, completely circumventing the mass of new vehicles that lined the front of the building, waiting for him to leave.

The detective glanced back at the mob and let out a sigh of relief. "Where to next?"

Mycroft's assistant smirked. " New Scotland Yard."


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft rubbed his eyes as file after file seemed to slide before him, each containing another hundred pages or so of every movement made by James Moriarty or his associates. The process of reviewing each and every manilla folder was down right mind numbing, and frankly, pointless.

There was absolutely no reason to believe that any one of Moriarty's associates would still be alive after their ring leader took a bullet to the brain, much less in easy reach.

The politician completely ignored the assistant that rolled in another cart of files as he turned his attention to his phone.

A new video message flashed up on the screen. The text written beneath it prompted a small smile from him. "You're little ambassador."

He thumbed open the video and watched Gregory calmly and collectedly address the crowd. his witty remarks perfectly timed and placed to easy the tension in the room.

The elder Holmes observed how his partner shifted and moved with each inquiry, the obvious tension in his shoulders, the stiffness of is arms and the moisture in his eyes. He admired the sheer willpower that his detective inspector possessed. is chest swelling with pride and warmth at the thought that it was his Gregory that was on that stage.

Mycroft cleared his throat an opened a voice note on his phone. "Order dinner from Angelo's for Gregory, take afternoon off."

There were a few minuets more of listening to the video and thumbing through his paperwork before the completely inappropriate comment drew his full attention. Mycroft snatched is phone up off of the table and squinted at the image of Kitty Riley.

His fingers twitched and his backed stiffened with each word that fell out of the woman's mouth. His first instinct was to call and have her removed. Any person who thinks and acts in such an uncouth manner would not be missed.

But the name struck a cord and he dove a few inches into his already finished paperwork stack to retrieve her file.

**Kitty Riley**  
**27**  
**London**

**Riley is the primary journalist that released the Richard Brookes story and catalyzed the Reichenbach Fall incident from a category 2 to a category 8. Her previous collaborations with The Web are currently unknown. Riley is under constant observation with no order to apprehend.**

Mycroft tapped in the number for his security chief. "Alonzo?"

The voice on the other side boomed through the speakers. "Sir."

"Step up observation on number-" He checked the serial code on the top of the folder. "NCC-1701. Priority Omega."

He paused for a moment. "Do not interfere with NCC-1701's personal affairs unless it directly affects our current efforts, am I clear?"

there was a quiet shuffling sound as if boots were scraping the pavement. "Yes sir."

Mycroft smirked. "Good. Make it so." He ended the call and sat the phone on the edge of his desk, only for it to vibrate against the hardwood once more.

**"Lestrade en route to NSY. Re route or maintain."**

The politician sighed and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He typed back quickly.

**"Maintain. He's going to go visit Doctor Watson. Make sure that NSY officers are amiable."**

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and shook his head, sending a silent prayer to whatever was out there that things wouldn't get worse.

_**MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH**_

The sleek black car pulled up in front of the NSY holding facility , letting Lestrade step out of the car.

The detective inspector stepped out and quickly rushed inside the building, expertly maneuver the corridors as he made his way to the detention center. No one took any notice of m whatsoever, though he did hear murmurs and see the slight pause when people caught sight of Mycroft's assistant, who was tailing him at a respectful distance. He sighed when he saw the doors leading to the detention center, taking a deep breath to steel himself to the jibes and snide comments that he was sure to face.

The receptionist at the desk simply nodded towards the closed off corridor. "I'll buzz you through. He's in cell 9-A."

Lestrade simply nodded and walked towards the door. It wasn't until he had stepped through that he noticed that the assistant had not followed him. He almost laughed aloud when he felt the prickling of nervous sweat begin on the back of his neck. "When had I become so used to having one of Myc's people around?" The mumbled words were met with an unnerving silence, despite the knowledge that the vast majority of cells around him should be occupied.

He took a second to peek into the slats of one of the cells beside him and saw that it was empty. Apparently, so were the next two.

Lestrade rounded the corner of the first five cells and saw a guard standing against a wall in the corridor. He cleared his throat and the guard jumped, startled. He looked as if he were about to faint the moment he laid eyes on Lestrade. "Uhh, sir, I do not know if you are allowed to be here."

The detective inspector merely chuckled. "Barkley. If I wasn't supposed to be here, I wouldn't be here. Now would you please step away for a bit? I'd like to speak with Mr. Watson in peace."

The man shook his head, and seemed to jump at the sound of rustling from within the cell. "I um, I don't think that would be a very good idea sir. He's such a high profile suspect and I mean I, I just don't."

Lestrade placed a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder. "There are CCTV cameras trained on every inch of this area. I don't think it'll hurt."

The man still looked unsure but he nodded and started to back away. "I'll give you five minutes, alright? Just five. And don't try anything."

Greg rolled his eyes and nodded before stepping up and unlatching the grate cover of John's cell. "You alright in there mate?"

There was a groan as the cover clanged away. "I'm alive,fat fucking lot of good that does me. Could you try not to be so bloody loud? Jesus the only sounds get are the ones I make and the fidgeting of that Barkley fellow."

Lestrade laughed and crouched down in front of the grate. "Well at least you haven't lost any of that Watson charm."

John rolled his eyes, lugged himself off of his cot dropping to the floor in front of the cell door. "What. Are you doing here Greg?"

He sighed and rubbed the ever present stubble on his neck. "I figured I'd come and check in on you. Also I can tell you that Myc says you'll be out of here in about a week. No charges will hold, and the county will even drop the charge for your chinning the superintendent."

John squinted at the detective inspector. "How'd you manage that?"

Greg shrugged. "I didn't ask Myc. My money is on a certain pressure point being hit about libel and slander charges that are in the process of being pressed."

John's eyes shot wide open. "What?"

"I don't have the specifics, but apparently there is an as-yet-unnamed internet group that's pressing charges against New Scotland Yard and several newspapers in the name of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

John shook his head. "I can't believe that. Who would care?"

Again the Detective Inspector shrugged. "Fans of your blog maybe? Teenage girls who are, were, obsessed with Sherlock? It doesn't matter. Just and on a few more days and you'll be a free man."

This time the former soldier laughed. It was dry and filled with pain; the sound of it nearly brought tears to Lestrade's eyes. "In what way am I free? The public will still hate or pity me because of my associate with Sherlock. I've lost my job and medical license because of this case. I severely doubt that Mrs. Hudson will want me back at her flat after all the trouble Sherlock's caused and frankly, I can't afford to stay there."

He sighed. "And even if I do, by one of Mycroft's miracles get to stay at Baker Street, why would I? It's be empty, Greg? With all of-" He stopped and looked away for a moment collecting himself. "With everything in there, how could I?"

Lestrade sighed. "We'll figure things out, alright? Just keep calm and carry on."

John squinted at the Detective Inspector "Who are you, the King?"

The man smirked. "Well I am shagging Mycroft."

That drew a genuine laugh out of both of them. "To be honest though I saw it on a newsboy's T-shirt yesterday."

The guard returned and gingerly tapped Lestrade's shoulder. "Sir, your-ah, your five minutes are up."

Lestrade nodded and said one last goodbye to John before turning around and heading to the door. He was greeted by none other than Mrs. Hudson as he head towards the reception desk. "There you are Mr. Lestrade. Ms. Avice said that you were visiting John. It's so nice that you're here."

Lestrade smiled. "I could say the same. He'll be glad to know that you don't hate him."

Mrs. Hudson gasped, her hand flying to clutch the necklace at her throat. "Why on earth would I hate him?"

Greg simply shrugged. "Ask him that, and while your at it assure him that you're not going to evict him or anything, alright? He's a bit paranoid."

The woman nodded. "Certainly Mr. Lestrade."

They parted ways and again Lestrade wove his way into the street where Mycroft's assistant was waiting with the car.


End file.
